


Wins and Losses

by perennial_distaste



Series: An extended list of times Steve Harrington has suffered at the hands of Billy Hargrove [1]
Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Anal Sex, Billy Hargrove Being an Asshole, Dom/sub Undertones, Fuck Boys, Gross language, M/M, Rough Oral Sex, Smut, Some angst, Steve Harrington's low self-esteem, everyone is bad at feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-01
Updated: 2019-10-01
Packaged: 2020-11-09 02:34:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,546
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20846111
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/perennial_distaste/pseuds/perennial_distaste
Summary: Steve Harrington's disaster dick appointment. There's not a whole lot of plot.





	Wins and Losses

Steve’s flicking between channels until he lands on a Mary Tyler Moore rerun, which is definitely a chick’s show, though at this hour who’s going to be passing judgement on his choice of entertainment. He can’t really focus on what Lou Grant is saying, his eyelids heavy and dry around the edges. He wishes that he could just drop off, but the wiry tension is keeping him pressed upright against the couch, unable to relax. It’s the kind of jitters he used to get when he’d scull coffee before an exam, having crammed a semester’s worth of revision the night before.

He vaguely wonders if he should tell Billy that even the idea of him emotes exam-like stress in Steve.

_Shall I compare thee to Mrs Pearlman’s History final?_

Billy’s definitely coming, he rationalizes, if only because Steve’s sure he’s still got major blue balls and a score to settle from last time. Knowing what he knows about Hargrove, the lure of an extended blow session would be too much for his ego to pass up.

2 am is fucking pushing it though.

They have a delicately worked out system in place. Billy will usually swing by around midnight, smelling like chlorine and mishandled anger issues, they’ll do some damage and by 3am the Camaro will softly manoeuvre out of the quiet cul-de-sac, to roar brazenly down Maple. Steve will lie in bed afterwards, drenched in sweat, wondering exactly how many of his neighbours knew that he was Billy Hargrove’s current booty call.

He listened for the sound of an approaching car, lowering the volume to mute.

There was nothing but the noiselessness of the early hours of the morning. It was the kind of silence that encouraged self-flagellation in Steve, forcing him to examine where his self-respect went, that he’d sit up into the wee hours of the night, waiting to fuck a guy who once fled his house half-naked when he'd casually mentioned hanging out in broad daylight. At a diner. Maybe, he’d said date, who can say _now_. All he remembers is Billy, Speedy Gonzalez-ing his ass so quickly to his car, that he’d left half his shit on Steve’s bedroom floor.

There’s a tell-tale noise outside as Steve’s stews in his poor decisions. It’s definitely Billy. The initial game plan was to pretend that he had woken him up, and that this whole thing was, like, such a terrible inconvenience. He’s even put on his nicer pyjamas, with emblazoned initials, for plausible deniability.

He waits for the gentle tap on the glass before moving off the couch. Billy doesn’t knock or ring the doorbell like a regular human being because he thinks that attracts too much attention.

“If knocking is suspicious, wonder what people will think of your ride parked outside my house every couple of nights.” He says as he opens the door and Billy shoulders past him into the entryway.

He gets no response. It’s so dark, he can only make out the contours of his face, but he knows in his gut that Billy’s smiling. Fucking feral as shit because he’s probably going to spend the next half hour yanking furiously on Steve’s hair.

“I’ve come to collect, Harrington.”

“Collect what? I’m trying to sleep and you’re – ”

“Such fucking bullshit, bet you showered and perfumed yourself, ‘cause you knew I was coming.”

Definitely feral.

“Probably sprayed your sheets too, they smelt fancy as fuck, last time.”

“Yeah, it’s normal to shower buddy, that’s not like a mating ritual or something.”

“Who said anything about mating?” He’s moving predatorily forward. It’s scarier than he probably intends it to be because it’s so damn dark and the only light source is the television, silently flickering in the next room.

“’s far as I remember, you’d offered to suck the life out of me?”

Steve remembers, the exact words and why he said them. Billy’s circling like a shark. Gets up real close behind Steve and grazes his teeth along his neck.

“Take off this silk shit.”

It takes him a second that, Billy’s real eager, right now. Like, this is gonna happen right here in his dark foyer, and Steve’s not going to even have the luxury of kneeling in the privacy of his own bedroom. He’s tugging slightly at Steve’s pyjamas, indicating their removal.

He wants to kiss so badly, but Billy’s always at an arm’s length nowadays, hovering silently. Waiting for him. He’s unbuttoning the shirt slowly, the cool air causing goose bumps on his skin. He wants to downplay his arousal, like he’s doing this because he’s being forced to satisfy Billy’s twisted fantasies, like this kind of thing isn’t why he so hot for him in the first place.

He removes his pants and makes a motion to get closer to Billy, who sways back gently. Giggles under his breath. Like a psychopath. Steve’s latest theory is that anyone who’s been involved with Billy Hargrove is at least part masochist, because a happy and healthy dating experience seems decidedly against his very nature.

“Wrong is kind of his default setting”, Max had once said. 

“Get on your knees.”

_Fine._

The start of their play is always a little jarring. Steve’s always so into it by the end, moaning, begging, whatever Billy’s imagination demands of him. Just once though, he’d like for Billy to be normal about this. Warm him up and ease him into the hardcore stuff. He’s no virgin, but his experience with women hasn’t really leaned this far south. The kinkiest thing he did prior to 'the Hargrove debacle’ was let Stacey Feldman stick a finger up his ass. Only once though, and he was roaring drunk.

He’s on his knees. Arches his back a little, in a way he hopes Billy will find suggestive.

“Yeah, nice. You fucking slut.”

“Want your pretty mouth fucked?”

Steve looks up at him. Wants to push his buttons.

“I’m down for it, dude”.

It’s not the right answer. Obviously. He’s supposed to say ‘pretty please’ and feign submission. Some nights, if Billy’s been half-way nice, he’ll even call him daddy after a few rounds. 

Billy hasn’t been nice in weeks.

Tonight’s probably not going to be much better.

Billy’s slow in his response. Eye’s twinkling. He likes it when Steve’s compliant. He _loves_ it when Steve gives as good as he gets. Hargrove’s tastes exist on two opposing ends of the spectrum, either Steve, as a complete supplicant, or he wants their fucking to resemble an actual fight. Sometimes when they hook up, Billy pretends that Steve is still in high school, that they’re in the same year and that he’s come over with a bone to pick. 

If Billy’s waiting for an actual resurgence of King Steve though, he’s out of luck. Steve’s moved on from his high school performance. He gives it the old college try occasionally for Billy’s sake, but really, he’s just wants to get on with it.

Thick finger wrap around Steve’s throat. Gently. No pressure. Just holding Steve in place. Then grabbing at the underside of his jaw. He jerks Steve’s head into an uncomfortable position. The dark of Billy’s eyes reflect the television’s flicker. He’s not smiling anymore.

“You’re not going to be able to speak tomorrow, Harrington.”

And because Steve can’t help himself, he says.

“That’s not a problem you’ll ever have. You ever shut up?”

Billy wordlessly unzips his fly and pushes down only the bare minimum of his underwear. Takes his cock into his hand and stuffs it unceremoniously into Steve’s mouth.

Steve has about half a second to get his breathing in check because Billy’s almost completely hard. His cock doesn’t fit the whole way down, even after their extensive practices. Billy just jabs and jabs at the back of Steve’s throat. Steve’s trying to maintain his composure. Short, huffy breathes through the nose.

He looks up at Billy. Fixated by the way his tongue drags out along the length of his teeth. The way it does when he’s angry or aroused. 

Billy got a whole handful of hair and he braces himself when Billy pushes in all the way down.

His natural, physiological reaction is to get away. He’s almost trained it of his system but when his gag reflex is triggered he can’t help but scramble for leverage on Billy’s thighs.

He closes his eyes when it gets to be too much. Billy’s pulls all the way out and then drives back in to the root.

“No, Stevie. You’re going look at me while choking.”

He’s trying, like, really trying. His eyes are watering like crazy, looking up feels like an enormous effort, especially with Billy just holding him there. Pressed down. Nose deep in public hair. It’s a test to see how long Steve can hold his breath.

He’s not going to last. His throat constricts in protest and he feels himself getting lightheaded. He tries to pull off Billy’s dick to catch his breath, but strong arms hold him in place. He retches. His stomach is empty so he has nothing to give except saliva and bile. It bubbles and trickles in long strands out of the corners of his mouth. Steve swears he can feel it coming out of his nose.

Billy pulls out for about a microsecond, and Steve tries to take in as much oxygen as humanly possible before he’s slammed face first into soft flesh again. He can’t stop gagging now that the reflex had been set off and Billy’s not giving him time to recover.

He’s pretty sure that’s Billy’s favourite part. The noise that Steve makes when he’s giving head. That, and his face covered with spit and come.

When he gets lunch with Robin tomorrow, he knows she’ll be disappointed. They’ll talk about bodily autonomy and respect. Again. She’ll make a lot of valid points and her concerned hand-holding will push him to agree vehemently from across the table. He’ll tell her that it was the last time and how he was abso-fucking-lutely done with Hargrove. Then he’ll go home and channel surf and wait for Billy to come over and rail him on the kitchen counter.

He loves her. Loves that she cares enough to try. But she’s also a virgin who’s never been fucked in the back of a muscle car. And she has a crush on painfully-straight Heather, so Robin has never been able to say jack shit to convince him.

Billy has a change of plans. He pushes Steve flat onto his back, holding his head pressed against the floor with a steely grip. Then sticks both thumbs in Steve’s mouth pulling it wide apart. Steve’s dying to tell him “you’re not _that _big”, partially because its true and also because he knows Billy’s going to smack him around a little. 

He’s not fast enough to relay that, before Billy’s practically seated on his face. This is significantly less comfortable than kneeling. He’s got no room to pull back, trapped like a rat under Billy’s weight and the hardwood flooring. Billy presses his arms down flush against the parquet so they don’t interfere. Steve's absentmindedly aware that he could choke and die tonight because he’d have no way of conveying to Billy that he’s run out of air.

He’s trying not to think about it. Tries instead to relax his throat and just let Billy go to town.

Billy’s relentless. It’s kind of painful. Not necessarily the good sort of pain, either. He dips out of Steve’s mouth. His cock drags out long, ribbons of saliva and precum which Billy flicks out onto Steve’s face. Into his hair. Takes his other hand and smears it in. Lying there, utterly immobile, the best he can hope for is that he doesn't get too much in his eyes.

Steve’s so hard. His dick hasn’t been touched since Billy came barging through his front door. He tries to desperately catch it between his thighs, by lifting his legs to it, but his cock is ramrod stiff. Angry. Leaking all over his stomach.

He can’t beg for his own pleasure. If he begs, Billy won’t touch him. Out of principle. The more Steve wants something the more Billy dangles it out of his reach.

Sometimes, Steve feels like Billy’s trying to even some sort of score between them. Like there are imaginary losses on an imaginary scoreboard that Billy’s wants to recuperate. He’s not sure what Billy feels he’s been cheated by. He took Steve’s keg stand record and basketball position despite being a junior. He’s been officiated as numero uno Hawkin’s dreamboat, not only by his peers, but by the hoard of poolside mommies that wait impatiently for his shifts to start. Hell, he’s got Steve on his hands and knees 4 days of the week.

Still, Steve can feel Billy’s resentment.

He wants to say, “Hey man. You won. It’s cool, you can have it. Just, like, rub my dick sometimes.”

Instead he lays there, flat and silent. Taking deep breaths through the wetness on his face. Billy staring at him. Steve can’t really read him at the moment. There's a high probability that he's going to get a slap in the face for his efforts, that, or Billy’s going to resume his abuse of his throat.

Instead, Billy stands. Walks around to Steve’s legs. Squats down next to him and flips him onto his stomach. Steve’s quietly cursing his parents for not putting a rug in their entryway.

He turns his head back as much as he can.

“I thought this was just about you, tonight?”

Billy growls. Angry. Like he’s been caught with his hand in the cookie jar.

“Face the floor.”

It’s hardly a surprise. They always face away from each other. Billy doesn’t do eye contact when they get to the main event. Steve feels like it could be hot. Billy’s hot. His eyes are pretty. It can only help while fucking, but he’s not super mad that this is Billy's preference. It feels animalistic. Primal. _Demeaning_, as Robin says.

He wants to explain that no one signs on for the Billy Hargrove experience to be coddled into an orgasm.

He thinks of Nancy, how they’d been so in love. How gentle he was with her. How gentle she was with him. They had normal, if slightly boring sex the way normal, boring teenagers were supposed to. She’s hurt Steve anyway. 

If the inevitable conclusion of all Steve’s relationships ended in him getting fucked, then at least he’d get someone who could do it properly.

Billy props Steve’s knees up slightly. For better access. Or a better view. Probably both.

“Hold yourself open.”

He does as he’s told. It’s uncomfortable with his face on the floor, knees struggling to maintain their placement, to reach back and, like, _present _himself.

There’s a noise behind him and wetness hits him in between his cheeks. Billy uses his finger to push the saliva directly into his hole.

“You’re so nasty.”

Steve laughs into the glossy boards. His hot breath creates slippery condensation patterns.

Billy’s regular slew of insults is sure to follow any second. When he’s pumping away, fully incensed, his verbal diarrhea ranges from the weird daddy Dom stuff he’s watches in his free time “You like that princess? Your pussy full enough?” to potentially homophobic dirty talk “ Yeah, faggot, take it up the ass.”

It’s not kosher, but in the moment it's exactly what Steve wants to hear. He likes knowing that he’s provoking such strong emotions. That Billy can’t control himself. That Billy’s angry at Steve, _at himself_, for wanting him.

Today he’s stalling. Perchance, Billy’s waiting for Steve to beg for dick. Steve’s not above that, but it’s too early in the night for him to go completely servile.

“Come on Hargrove, waiting for an engraved invitation?”

More silence. Steve can’t shift his head comfortably to look back to whatever it is that’s delaying Billy from his usual onslaught.

“Please daddy, _or whatever_, fuck my ass?"

No reaction.

“Hey man, Imma need you to work with me again.”

Billy leans down slowly. Steve can feel the tickling of his breath on his shoulder blades. His mouth traces slowly up Steve’s spine. Not licking, just _breathing _him in.

He feels a kiss on his left shoulder.

The change in mood is giving him severe whiplash. Billy with all his complexes and hypermasculinity, doesn’t kiss him too often, and when he does, its predictably all tongue and teeth.

It’s as if a lack of tenderness, or even civility, on his part helps with the delusion that their nightly activities are just, what? Two guys relieving themselves? A struggle for dominance? Steve’s still not sure what Billy tells himself to sleep at night.

Now he’s peppering gentle kisses along his neck. The placements are odd and asymmetrical. If he had to guess he’d say Billy’s kissing him along his moles.

“Turn a bit.”

Billy’s voice is so soft in his ear. Feels like a deep hum.

Their lips connect. It’s a little awkward. Especially, with the chasteness of the kiss.

Steve’s ears ring. He can feel a migraine coming on. For the first time tonight, he wishes that he’d truly just gone to bed.

He barely registers as Billy pushes the tip in. There’s a burn, due to lack of prep, but the pounding in his temples overwhelms everything else. 

Steve desperately tries to extract his mouth. Billy’s hand keeps his head turned at that uncomfortable angle. He bites at his lip and the skin surrounding his mouth, hard enough to draw blood. Steve’s so sure that Billy will snap, hopefully smash his face into the floor, resume regular programming.

“It’s okay.”

_It is not fucking okay_. 

Billy’s gentle push-pull out motion is like drip torture on his skin. His scream muffles on Billy’s lips.

Steve’s gone into that part of his thoughts he’s been wise enough to avoid for the last few months. He’d laughed with Tommy when he’d failed Spanish and Bio. When not a single college had responded to his application, he’d shrugged, wounded a little, but not surprised.

_This_, though. Even he thought he was too smart for this.

To fall for the same routine he’d pulled on Laurie and Amy and poor, frantic Becky who’d called his house every night in sophomore year.

“Steve.” Billy says it soft, against his lips.

Of course, he’s bawling. Internally cursing Hargrove. Just sobbing in rhythm with the thrusts above him. He wants to black out. For this to be over. His mind stuck in a constant loop of “I can’t” and “stop” and “Billy”.

So much for their delicate system. Steve’s recognizes this for what it is. The end. Between Billy’s tenderness and Steve’s crying, there’s no possible way for them to bounce back. Going forward has never been an option, either. That small unspoken thing has snapped.

Coming has never been so sad. It's torn out unexpectantly, one moment he’s catatonic against the hardwood, the next he lurches from Billy’s mouth. The misery is overpowering. The last bastion of whatever the fuck he was holding on to, eviscerated.

Goodbye, Billy Hargrove. It was fun while it lasted.

If there was a score to settle, surely this was it. Steve had cried and Billy was almost sweet, which was against the rules they’d set themselves.

Billy extracts himself. The wet cling on Steve’s back turns cold and nasty almost immediately.

The last thing he wants is to look Billy in the eye, but now that his arousal’s gone he’s left with a sore body and a collection of fluids he’d like to wash off. Not that Billy will request a night cap or anything, but he has an overwhelming desire to usher him out as soon as possible. Preferably without discussing what just happened.

Billy’s pants are on. He’s hovering by Steve, not making any apparent effort to get back to his car.

“I parked around the back, actually."

An answer to a question never asked.

“What?” His voice is raspy from tears and dick.

“Near the woods. You said your neighbours, they’d - , you know?”

“Don’t worry about it” Steve stiffens. Billy doesn’t know about what once lurked in those shadows, how dangerous the dark corners in Hawkins truly were. “I was just busting your balls. Park wherever you like, no one gives a shit what you do here”.

“Oh.”

Billy moves in, real close. His arms open slowly to invite Steve in. The way Nancy’s did when she’d see him after school, and held him tight in her warmth.

He moves back. He’s not interested in Hargrove’s poor attempts at replicating human emotion. He can save his pity hugs or goodbye hugs or whatever that was, for the next unsuspecting dimwit to fall for his dirt-bag-with-a-sensitive-side routine.

If Billy’s disappointed. He doesn’t say anything and Steve can’t really see his face what with the dark and his eyes blurry.

He doesn’t try again. Just opens the door slightly and turns back.

“Steve?”

Steve moves forward and pushes him gently onto the porch. Quickly, hoping that Billy doesn’t get a good look at his face in the street light’s illumination.

“Drive safe, Hargrove”. He shuts the door with a slam.


End file.
